Silence kills

Spoiler alert:  Bleeding heart liberal thinking follows.

Preach the truth as if you had a million voices.  It is silence that kills the world. – St. Catherine of Siena

Catherine Benincasa (Catherine of Siena) was born in 1347, the twenty-fourth of twenty-five children of Lapa di Puccio Piagenti and Jacopo Benincasa.   She was the first woman to be named a doctor of the Roman Catholic Church.

John had a joke about a visitor to Hell getting the grand tour and ending up in a room where thousands of people were standing in a tank of waste water, all the way up to their bottom lips.  He kept hearing “mumble, mumble, mumble” and finally got close enough to hear what the people were saying.  “Don’t make waves.  Don’t make waves.  Don’t make waves,” they were murmuring.

I don’t put an Obama sticker on my bumper because I don’t want my car keyed.  I support Planned Parenthood and put a sticker showing that support on my bumper.  It got ripped off.   Working in the construction industry, I am well aware that my opinion on welfare, a woman’s right to choose, the death penalty, immigration, and health care is not the dominant opinion.   The angry voices of Tea Party folks are loud and scary.  So, I don’t say anything.  I don’t make waves.

I’m tired of that.  This silence of mine, and maybe some others, is hurting our nation.  I’m not going to say that I’m mad as hell and not going to take it anymore, but I will say that I don’t intend to pretend like everything’s fine. 

• I listened to the Republican debate after the fact on www.npr.org.  Ron Paul said that freedom to choose presents dangers that are the individual’s right to assume.  When asked if that meant that we should just let an uninsured coma victim die, the audience broke into thunderous cheers. 

Does anybody remember the Terri Schiavo case when Republicans (chiefly) were trying to get court orders to stop her husband from letting her die?  George W. Bush rushed to Washington to get a delay.  Schiavo’s care was initially paid through a malpractice settlement but that money was long spent by the time her husband petitioned the court to let her pass.   Medicare and state indigent care kept her alive for more than 5 years.  What’s changed? 
• Shackling during childbirth is illegal in 14 states and is against U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) policy. But women being held for immigration-related offenses classified as “criminal offenses” can still legally be handcuffed to their hospital beds by state authorities in the 36 other states. Those women can also be denied the right to have a family member in the birthing room or to hold their newborns for longer than 24 hours.  Juana Villegas gave birth in the sheriff’s custody after she was stopped by local police while driving without a valid license.  According to Elliott Ozment, Villegas’s lawyer, driving without a license is generally handled with a citation, not an arrest. He believes Villegas was only brought in because she was an undocumented immigrant.

Mom wasn't able to hold her baby for 2 days.

I assume shackling a pregnant illegal alien giving birth would have met with the same thunderous applause as the uninsured coma victim.  Yes, she committed a crime.   She had forged documents and was in the U.S. illegally.  Where’s the compassion? Is that an outdated concept like tolerance and compromise?

 

• Recently legislation has been introduced in Florida to repeal mandated drug testing the close to the  hundred thousand Floridians, many of them kids, who receive cash assistance though a state welfare program. The average pay out is 240 dollars a month and state lawmakers want to make sure none of that money is used to buy drugs.  In a similar measure, Kentucky state representative Lonnie Napier (R-Lancaster) has introduced a bill that would enforce random drug testing for all adult Kentuckians receiving welfare, food stamps or Medicaid  which he stated would save money for the state.   Napier’s legislation was cosponsored by House Speaker Greg Stumbo (D-Prestonsburg).  

Rick Scott, governor of Florida: This will "help people get off drugs."

Bob’s son told me about this measure.  He, and 70% of the Floridians, think this is a great idea.  I don’t.  Rick Scott, governor of Florida, is the co-founder of the drug testing company.  (He recently gave his shares to his wife.)  With 93,000 Floridians receiving assistance and testing average costs of $50 per person, somebody’s making some cash. 

If this approach worked, then putting addicts in prison and taking their children away would make us stop using.  It doesn’t work like that.  Addiction to drugs and alcohol is a disease.  I would have wanted to stop using drugs so I could pass the test.  I would have promised God and everyone that I wouldn’t use drugs.  I couldn’t have done it.  It’s a disease.  It doesn’t go away with promises or wishes or the best intentions.

I’m tired of having the loudest, most hate filled voices be the tones that our representatives  follow.  I’m tired of feeling like I’m not represented in Washington or Austin because my reps and senators (with the exception of my state senator Judith Zaffirini) and governor are all Republicans.  I do call.  I do write letters and send emails.  Is anyone in Washington or Austin really listening? 

I don’t think so.

Dove hunting

Dove can travel considerable distances in search of food, water, and gravel, but prefer easy access to them.

I am not a hunter.  I don’t handle guns or do archery.  I am oblivious to wild game that passes in my vicinity.  I’m seen more deer and exotic animals from the car travelling with Bob in the past year than I’ve seen in the previous 40 years.  Bob hones in on the conditions where game might be and enjoys travelling early in the day or at sunset so he can point out the animals.  The only deer I killed, I slaughtered with a 1980 Chevrolet Chevette.  It was like a school yard fight: even if you win, you lose.  Hundreds of dollars later, I swore to never drive at night in deer country. 

Bob’s intent on going hunting and since dove season started in south Texas on September 23rd, he’s past ready to go.  I found out that I had a misconception about hunting doves.  I always thought that you just fired into the dove herd and the shotgun pellets hit 8 or 10 birds like little metal heat seekers.  Daily limit of 15 birds?  I thought anybody who could fire a shotgun could do that. 

That would be true if we lived in Looney Tune World.  I found out it takes more skill than that.  Texas Parks and Wildlife recommends visiting a shooting range and taking more shotgun shells than you think you’ll need.  Their studies indicate that dove hunters average 3 birds bagged per 25 shots.

Doves have great vision and can spot hunters from high in the sky.  I’m told that camo is essential if you are going to hunt doves.  Doves eat seeds early in the morning and at sunset.   Doves are like an ex-husband of mine.  They usually stop off for a drink before coming home to roost.  I don’t know how the Texas drought will affect the hunting season.  Poor creatures probably have to fly for miles to find the nearest water pipe break.  That’s the only water in gutters we have had in south Texas recently.

It isn’t okay to bait doves since they’re covered by the Federal Migratory Bird Treaty Act.  Baiting means to scatter seeds in the area where you are hunting.  You can hunt in a recently harvested grain field, though.  And you can bring dove decoys which I’m not sure will fool any dove.  You are supposed to scatter them around the watering hole if you can find one. 

Little known bird facts that most people know but were news to me:

• Most dove nests contain 1 to 3 eggs which were layed over an 18 hour interval.
• Baby birds fly within 10 days of hatching.
• A dove in captivity can live longer than 15  years.
• White wing doves are 33% bigger than mourning doves
• And, this from a Texas sport hunting website, studies conducted by state officials in Texas have shown that hunting pressures have had minimal impact on the quantity of birds. 

Dove breasts, serrano peppers and Thai basil

We were given a bunch of doves by a friend of Bob’s a couple of weeks ago.   There were 37 doves in the baggies Bob brought home.  I had never seen a dead, de-feathered dove before last week; doves look beefy red.  I stuffed them with serrano peppers, garlic, and Thai basil and wrapped them with peppered bacon.  After baking them for 30 minutes at 350 degrees, they were done and looked like the dark meat of a chicken.  I thought they were a little dry and had a flavor that was kind of NOT like chicken. 

Dove breasts and veggies going in Bob's lunch

Gary tells me that we should have mixed a can of cream of mushroom soup with a can of Ro-tel tomatoes and poured it over the doves after I’d done the stuffing and wrapping deal.  I’ll try that if Bob gets his dove limit times 3 or 4.

I got a limited public use permit last week so I can go with Bob when he hunts on public wildlife management acreage.  There were several reasons with the top three being that I like being with Bob, I think I can take some good pictures while we are out in the wild, and I believe I will look great in camouflage.   I’ve been trying it on.

Foozling

Doesn’t that sound better than awkward, clumsy, maladroit, klutzy, hamhanded, butterfingered, or graceless?  It means the same thing.  “Foozling” comes from the verb foozle meaning to play or move clumsily.  It’s a real word.  It comes from a German word fuseln.  I foozled all day long yesterday; it happens.  I’ve been known to foozle away entire days.

I began life as a foozling baby.  Most infants come out head first.  I came out sideways, right hand and foot competing to see which would see daylight first in a “Taa-daa” start to life.  It should have been a portent that I need to wear padding on my knees and bum.

I was foozling enough as a child for Mother to sign me up for dance lessons in the hope that I’d learn the dexterity that I’d missed out on when God was handing out grace.  (Must have thought God said “Race!” and you know how I hate running.)

I took piano lessons as a child.  My parents knew in a few months that I not only would not master the piano but might cause the teacher a psychotic break as she listened to my fumbling attempts to play “I Had a Little Red Pony.”  In the required end of the year recital, I played a duet with my little sister, plunking the D and G keys on the bass end of the scale when Mary Ann glared at me.  Embarrassing?  Probably but it was the price I gladly paid to escape another year of piano lessons.

Kitten looks like me trying to achieve a full lotus position in yoga class

I had similar experience with playing basketball.  In our small south Texas town of George West, there was a limit to the sports girls could play.  If you weren’t in band (God forbid), you played basketball.  After my 7th or 8th jammed finger, 3rd twisted ankle, and probably 5th busted knee, the coach suggested that I might like to be team statistician. 

I’ve blamed my foozlingness on being left-handed, but I’m not sure that explains it.  Our dad said that it was because I had an undefined center of gravity and that I’d do better when I attained my full height.  I like that one but I got full height by 16 and still have a hard time not dripping over dust mites. 

"OK. When I get over this log, I'm going to eat a few beetles, scare a hiker, and visit Aunt Betsy...OOPS!"

I think part of the problem is that I’m always 2 or 3 places at one time in my mind.  When I can stay in the moment, I do better.  The problem with dividing myself into sections when I work is that I tend to rush what I’m doing to get to the next place in time.  I dumped an entire cup of coffee into my printer the other day when I was on my cell phone to the City, the office phone to Max, and trying to look up a detail on a set of plans while sending “print” to a letter.   (HP LaserJet P2035n Printers are as good as new after they dry.  The air blowing out of them when they print is like a coffee room deodorizer, though.  I like it, but you might not.)

Will I ever be able to slow down, pay attention, and just savor the moment?  You would think I would have figured that little jewel of knowledge years ago.  It would have probably saved my aching knees and fingers. 

For now, I’ll remember to:

• Tie my shoelaces
• Not spit into the wind
• Choose the paper or plastic option at the dinnerware store
• Say no to Euro-Pro Ninja knives, 3″ heels, and inline skates
• Wear any color but white
• Only borrow things I can afford to replace if broken
• Keep caps on the Sharpie markers
• Separate liquids and electronics

Things that go bump at 3 a.m.

Connie Watson, ghost researcher and spirit photographer (http://constancewatson-ivil.tripod.com/), states that 3 a.m. has several meanings. 

“In paranormal work, a lot of psychic phenomena tends to peak at this hour.  Many of my medic friends report that at 3:00 a.m. the volume of runs they make escalate at this hour. Also, a lot of people wait to pass at this hour.

“For those who are psychic mediums as myself, waking up at the same time can have a significant meaning in that you are picking up on information from another source (person or spirit) and the hour may have some significance.”

Oilfield demand has created shortages of construction equipment. We got the last light tower in south Texas from Butler Rentals.

I don’t know about any of that.  I know that the significance of 3 a.m. for concrete contractors is that it’s a great time to make a large concrete pour.  Even though the south Texas heat is diminishing, it still hits 95 by 2 p.m.   Heat exhaustion is pretty much guaranteed during a 100+ cubic yard pour at noon during the summer months.  It may be turning fall on Friday, 9/23, but nobody’s told the weather about it.  It’s still stinking hot.

Max has the contract to construct a tiny gated community in Portland with one concrete entrance street of about 18,000 s.f.   Max and his crew have done the utilities, drainage, and dirt work on the job.   Pipelayers and excavator operators can shift trades only so far; they can be credible maintainer and roller operators.  But pouring concrete is a craft of its own.  We use a sub for concrete work.

Live Oak Materials used 8 trucks to keep the concrete flowing.

The subcontractor for this job comes from Fort Worth by way of Chihuahua and does work all over the state.  Adulpho told Max that he wanted to pour 90% of the concrete pavement in one pour this week.   That would be a 250 CY pour which is a pretty huge pavement pour.  “Can he do that much concrete in one day?” Max asked. “Pedro’s brother was going to pour 40 yards at a time.”

We questioned him, and he was certain that 250 CY would be no problem.  “I’ll have 20 guys here on Thursday.  No.  Maybe not that many.”  (Air counting potential workforce)  “Almost that many.  I’ll have 17 finishers and laborers.”

Last picture before camera battery went ka-put. Only casualty of the night, I think

In the end, we coordinated with the concrete plant who agreed that they could supply that amount of concrete starting at 3:00 a.m.  I checked the job last night.  Forms and steel were in place and looked good.  No chance of rain.  Called testing lab to make sure they could be on site. 

I was on the job when the 2nd truck rolled onto the site.  By 4 a.m., we had gotten 70 CY; by 6 a.m., 200 CY were dumped and spread.  When I went to the office at 9:30, the last truck was pouring out. 

The ghosts of bad concrete pours must have stayed in last night.   258 CY successfully placed.

Robert’s Rolling Raccoon Rescue

A raccoon's tail stores fat in the winter and is used for balance.

A friend on mine had a raccoon for a pet when she was a kid.  The animal  had been abandoned in plowed field as a baby and my friend’s mom bottle fed it and box trained it like a cat.  It lived for 15 years before it died of natural causes.  That’s as opposed to the family cat and dog hiring a hit skunk to take out the pet competition.

I thought that was pretty cool.  Raccoons don’t have the power to creep me out like possums.   I’m not crazy about them when we go camping.  Their little hands are agile and what they can’t break into, their sharp teeth can chew through.   We’re vigilant, usually, but I’ve been surprised at their ability to grocery shop through our dry boxes. 

Raccoon babies (kits) are always born between April-June. Raccoon moms do the raising; dads are deadbeat dads

Raccoons are known for their intelligence since they can remember solutions to problems for years.  Their dexterous hands and masked faces are the stuff that make myths and cartoons.   The Virginia English who first saw them called by their Powhatan name “aroucun” which means one who scrubs with their hands.  The name’s stuck.

Interesting note, Linnaeus the father of modern taxonomy put raccoons in the bear family and used the name Ursus Lotor (“washer bear”) to name them.   Raccoons were given a genus of their own Procyon Lotor (“before dog washer”) a few years later when revisions were made to the taxonomy.  Today, it’s believed that raccoons do share a close relation to bears but they also share a family relationship with weasels.

Raccoons can live up to 20 years in captivity.  Their average lifespan in the wild is 3-4 years with hunters and cars being the main causes of raccoon death.  They used to live in forested areas, but raccoons are adaptable and can live in virtually any habitat.   They are considered pests to many homeowners. 

That brings about the need to relocate raccoons on occasion.

"I don't know why they had this trap next to the tall black plastic cafeteria."

Yesterday, Bob and I were on our way to have dinner with his daughter and her fiancée when a call came for help from Nicole.  A mutual friend had set a Live Trap to catch a garbage can marauder and had captured a raccoon.  He had gone out-of-town on a business trip and his wife was frantic.  What was SHE supposed to do?  She’d called Animal Control and they were going to euthanize the animal if they picked it up.  What was the point of using a Live Trap if the animal was going to get killed anyway? 

Bob asked, “What was the plan if her husband had been in town?  Was he going to give it a lecture, tell it to sin no more, and set it free?”

It didn’t matter.  Bob has a soft spot for small animals and little children.  There was no way he would leave the raccoon in the cage for days waiting for our friend to get back into town.  And he didn’t like the euthanizing idea, either.  So we were going to be side tripping to pick up a trapped raccoon before dinner.

The captured animal looked embarrassed.   Bob tried talking it up and reassuring it that he was going to release it as soon as he found a safe place for it.  (“It’s okay, buddy.  I’ll have you out of there in just a little bit.  Awww.  You’re an old guy.  I’d pet you if I could.  Look, Margaret.  He’s got a spot of mange.”)

Our friend’s wife was desperately happy to see that someone (ANYONE) was going to take her trapped raccoon away.  (“Oh, my God.  I can’t believe that we caught that animal.  I have food for it.  Let me send it with food.  I’ve got plenty of food.  You aren’t going to kill it, right?  The police were going to kill it.  I don’t want it to be killed.  I’ll go get the food.  Do you think it will like food?”)

Bob joked with her that food was a great idea.  (“People always get out of jail hungry.  Jail food’s terrible.”)  She wasn’t that amused. 

Bob drove us to a wildlife sanctuary just outside of Portland, opened the tail-gate, and set the food on the ground, all the time talking to his new friend.  (“We’re here, old fellow.  I’m just going to open the door and you can find a new home.)

The raccoon went aerial like Rocky the Flying Squirrel as soon as Bob opened the trap’s door.  It banked to the left, feet skittered through the air.  It raced down the fence line and darted in through a hole in the fence without a wave good-bye.  I thought I could hear a faint “Adios, suckers!” as he ran through the brush.

Words that I’ve lived by

A Lie stands on 1 leg, Truth on 2. 1736

When I was in 4th grade, we studied Ben Franklin and Poor Richard’s Almanack.  At the end of our studies, we were asked to compose sayings of our own that embodied our philosophies.  Mine was “A half-truth is better than no truth at all.”  It got a few laughs and a raised eyebrow from Mrs. Glover who disagreed that it was a good philosophy.  

It’s said that you can tell an alcoholic’s lying if their lips are moving.  My teacher’s comments should have sent a shiver down my spine as the present trod on my future alcoholic grave.  I lived by that philosophy for much of my life, using half truth and exaggeration to get laughs and get by.

The worst part, for me, is that I became skilled at lying to myself and believing the half-truths I was tossing out.  It took years before I uncovered the truth about my fictions.  They weren’t serving me or anyone else well. 

Am I always truthful?  No.  I’m better about seeing the dinginess of my little white lies, but I still have to tell people, “I’m sorry!  That wasn’t true.  The truth is….”  Embarrassing?  Yes.  But it’s necessary.  There are a few truths about myself that I can’t afford to turn into half-truths.  The slide down that slippery slope of honesty is pretty quick.  Best not to start on it at all.

Here are a few more sayings that I’ve used and retired:

Would you live with ease, Do what you ought, and not what you please. 1734

1.  One more won’t hurt.     That philosophy applied to every bad habit I’ve had or have.   It has been responsible for my being late to children’s musicals and meetings.  I’ve shed untold pounds with the knowledge that one more does hurt.  One more has tipped and toppled the budgetary scale and left me scrambling for funds. 

2.  It’s not that bad.  I was a minimizer before Playtex.  It might not be a bad philosophy as encouragement to an endeavor.  “You can do it!  You’re almost there!”

Used to excuse bad behavior or hastily done work, it’s a killer.  That’s the way I lived.  I drew plenty of lines in the sand, toe erased them, and moved them further away.  I found myself having to erase and move repeatedly until I was against the wall. 

Diligence is the Mother of Good-Luck. 1741

I will still do that in an untenable situation.  Today, I have to ask for a second opinion.  I’m surprised that just putting the problem into words and telling another human being, not the dog, will help me see that it IS that bad.  I can’t fix a problem if I don’t think it exists.  That’s why telling someone usually gets it into perspective. 

3.  Another saying that I avoid is I didn’t want to worry you by telling you about that.  That could be anything from a problem with the kids to a problem with the bank.  It could be indigestion or chest pains, something or nothing.  How noble of me to protect you!  How caring of me to worry about your feelings. 

As my favorite mystery detective would say, “Pfui!”  What I did not want was confrontation.  What I did not want was to put the truth on the table and make it open to discussion.  I might get uncomfortable.  To heck with you!

None preaches better than the ant, and she says nothing. 1746

4.  Let me tell you what I would do if I were you.  I bitterly resent being told what to do.  Why do I think that you want to hear what I think you should do?  I usually have offered my what I would do without your asking.  If you got mad at me, I was “just trying to be helpful” and you were overly sensitive when you were insulted. 

One thing that AA has taught me is to share my experience, strength and hope.  Not my best friend in the program, not Dr. Phil’s, not my neighbor’s.  MY experience, strength and hope.  Don’t have any experience with the problem you’ve got?  Then it’s pretty hard for me to give you strength or hope.

It’s much easier today to just tell you that I’ve never faced that kind of problem or, alternately, that I have and here’s what happened.  This has never been more real to me than when I lost Jack.  I found Compassionate Friends to be a port since the men and women there had lost children of their own.

You would be surprised at how many people would preface remarks with, “I don’t know how you’ve feel.  I’ve never lost a child.  But I think you should…”  In the beginning, I stopped hearing when they said they’d never lost a child.  (How lucky, I would think.  Why have I had to lose a child?)  I passed that stage and for a time wanted to carry a brick in my purse to brain them before they could give my their piece of advice. 

Today, I just listen.  For a parent, the thought of losing a child is more than horrifying.  It’s almost like touching home plate to be able to say the words, “I’ve never lost a child.”   I do understand.

Do not fear mistakes. You will know failure. Continue to reach out. 1744

5.  I’m being punished by God (or alternately rewarded by God).  Yep.  I believed in God the Santa Claus.  If I were naughty, I got ashes and switches.  If I were nice, I got unicorns and rainbows. 

It took a few years sober before I could believe in a God who loves me all the time, who wants only good for me and who forgives me no matter what.  Do I think God doesn’t care if I do wrong?  The God of my understanding wants absolutely the best for me even when my actions can cause me-and those I love-great pain. 

This world has a law of consequences.  When I break God’s laws, life will deal out a consequence.  If I sow gossip, I may harvest loneliness.  If I sow anger, I might harvest physical illness.  The law of consequences applies to me and to people I love.  I have free will.  So does everyone else.  That can hurt sometimes if their free will crosses into my life.  Did I say hurt?  The free will of a drunk can bring incredible pain into the lives of people if he chooses to drive. 

Is that God’s punishment?  I can’t go thinking in that direction. 

When the crashes come in my life-and I have no way to stop them most of the time-that’s when I need God.   Not the Santa Claus God.  There are some things that just can’t be made okay. God may not give me more than I can handle, but life sure does. I need a God who is bigger than the worst thing that can happen. 

By the same token, I’ve been given so many gifts in this life.  I’m not sure if I’d recognize the gifts if I didn’t have to pass through the deserts.  Are they rewards?  I think they embody the definition of grace:  undeserved favor.   (Thanks, God!)

A truly good book

Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read. ~Attributed to Groucho Marx

One of my earliest memories is of my older sister reading Little Black Sambo which dates me since the book stopped being P.C. about the time we stopped taking a “black man by the toe” when we Eeny-meeny-miny-mo’ed.  

It delighted me no end to think of the tigers running until they turned into butter to be served with pancakes which were my favorite meal then and now.  My sister is 4 years older than I so she was a reading 1st grader about that time and I was a chubby, blonde 2-year-old hanging on her every word. 

The time to read is any time: no apparatus, no appointment of time and place, is necessary. It is the only art which can be practised at any hour of the day or night, whenever the time and inclination comes, that is your time for reading; in joy or sorrow, health or illness. ~Holbrook Jackson

I’m not sure if I learned the words or if I just memorized since Georgie Jane has the ability to wither roses with an Imperious Stare.  It was something she was born with as the oldest sister.   By the time she determined I should be reading by myself, I got the Imperious Stare if I couldn’t tell her what a particular grouping of letters spelled. (“Margaret.  What does that word say?”) (Blank stare from me.) (Imperious Stare from her.) 

Do you want to put that in writing? (I will in 5,994,000 years)

The result was that I learned how to read by myself at a relatively early age.  Trips to the library were almost daily events in the summer.  About mid-afternoon, we would don our flip-flops and make the trek through the shimmering summer heat to the Live Oak County Courthouse where the library was housed.

The librarian in our small south Texas town knew what we Coleman girls liked to read and kept set asides when new books arrived.  During the summer when we spent a month at Montell or a couple of weeks at Grandma’s house, the librarian made our book selections and sent them to us. 

Used by rich Sumerian merchant to count his barley

The reading heritage was passed along to us by our parents.  Slipping into their room at night after a bad dream, I was almost guaranteed to see one or both of them with a book in their hands.  Mother loved mysteries; Daddy liked historical novels or commentaries.  They both believed that if you can read, you can do anything.  And to a great extent, I’ve found that to be true.  From cooking to sewing to changing a tire or laying tile, the written word has the strength to teach me how to do complete the task at hand.

The written word is a relatively new invention.  People used speech 6,000,000 years ago; even insects communicate by sound.  But writing?  It wasn’t used until 6,000 years ago. 

• Sumerians used graphics to convey ideas in 4,000 B.C.
• Phoenicians invented a wrttn lngg tht nly sd cnsnnts n 2,000 B.C.
•  Greeks added vowels in 1,000 B.C.
•  IN200BC,PUNCTUATIONWASADDED
• lowercaseletterswereinventedbyMedievalScribesin700A.D. 
• It was in 900 A.D. that spaces were inserted between words.  
• Very little has changed in writing format for 1,000 years

When Mother lost her eyesight to macular degeneration, she went into a deep depression.  How was she going to read?  She loved books and, at 72, was sure that she couldn’t learn braille.  We enrolled her in Lighthouse of the Blind tape exchange where she could order 5 or 10 books and listen to them. 

To read a book for the first time is to make an acquaintance with a new friend; to read it for a second time is to meet an old one. ~Chinese Saying

Although I wasn’t sure she’d enjoy them, she did.  We listened to them together just like we used to read together in bed.  Mother got embarrassed if a book had an intense love scene and would just skim past it, returning to earnest reading when the sex scene was finished.  She did the same thing with her tapes.  To 14-year-old Georgie who sat on the bed with her, she’d say, “Close your ears, honey,” as she fumbled to fast forward from “probing tongue” to the “crescendo of love.” 

When a hurricane threatens the coast, we board up and make sure we have fresh water, batteries for the flashlights, candles, canned foods, and most important of all, books.  We keep our priorities straight!  Sometimes it’s a new friend, a book never read before.  Sometimes, it’s an old friend like To Kill a Mockingbird or Gone with the Wind.  It doesn’t matter.  I can weather any storm as long as I have a truly good book with me.

Warning Signs

I particularly like Steve Martin in The Man with Two Brains.  It’s one of my favorite movies.  I like the part when Martin’s character (Dr. Hfuhruhurr) is considering marriage to Kathleen Turner’s gold-digging character and asks the portrait of his dead wife, “Will you send me a sign that you approve of this marriage?” 

 There’s a low moan and he asks again, “Just any sign?”  The moan gets louder and the windows start rattling.  Deaf to the sound, he says, “I just want to know you approve.  A small sign?  Just to let me know you are at peace with the wedding.” 

In the end, the windows are opening and shutting, the moan has become a banshee wail, and pictures are flying off the wall and Martin is oblivious to it all.  He finally says, “Since you aren’t sending me a sign, I’m going to assume that you approve,” and he walks out of the room.

I’m not that bad about ignoring warning signs, but I do tend to minimize.  There’s a part in the Big Book of AA that says we alkies could stop drinking or die an alcoholic death.  The joke around the rooms is that most of us have thought, “How bad could that death thing be anyway?”

When I started smoking cigarettes, the warning label on a pack of cigarettes stated “Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined that Cigarette Smoking is Dangerous to Your Health.”   That didn’t stop me from smoking. 

Warning on British pack of cigarettes

The warning was beefed up by the time Bob, who didn’t start smoking until age 40, began puffing.  “SURGEON GENERAL’S WARNING: Smoking Causes Lung Cancer, Heart Disease, Emphysema, And May Complicate Pregnancy.”  Much more official and still not likely to deter a determined smoker. 

The warnings on the E.U. cig packs are much more dire and appeal to the smoker’s vanity.

• Smoking can cause a slow and painful death
• Get help to stop smoking: Phone number of local hotline
• Smoking may reduce the blood flow and cause impotence
• Smoking causes ageing of the skin
• Smoking can damage the sperm and decreases fertility
• Smoke contains benzene, nitrosamines, formaldehyde and hydrogen cyanide.

Since the 10 countries that have the highest rate of cigarette consumption per capita are all in the E.U., the warnings aren’t that effective either.  (How bad could that impotence, infertility, leathery skin, and slow and painful death be anyway?)

Keep right (really, really right)

Traffic warning signs are sometimes confusing to me.  I think they are designed to be.  Whoever is in charge of Warning Sign World is diabolical.

"Year of 1686. His Majesty commands all coaches, seges and litters coming from Salvador's entrance to back up to the same part"--CLEAR AS MUD

Traffic signs aren’t new.  The Romans had mile markers.  Later, countries used stone or wooden signs to give directions to travellers.  When bicycles became a common mode of travel, cycling clubs erected signs that warned of potential hazards ahead rather than merely giving distance or directions to places.

In paper-car-bear, the bear usually wins despite what the sign says.

By the time cars came along, the need for a standardized sign system was recognized.  One of the first modern-day road sign systems was devised by the Italian Touring Club in 1895. By 1900, a Congress of the International League of Touring Organizations in Paris was considering proposals for standardization of road signage.

Both Britain and the United States developed their own road signage systems.   The UK adopted a version of the European road signs in 1964 and U.S. signage began using some symbols and graphics mixed in with English.

How bad could that off-roading be anyway?

Sometimes I think T.M.I. applies to traffic signs.  I’ve wanted to back up and take another look at a sign I’ve passed.  Do you really think they mean to say that?

I like signs that say what they mean.  How can you mis-read “Dead End?”  Plain, succinct.  There’s no question that you’ve hit the end of the road when you see that sign.  Or maybe there’s a short cut on the other side of those trees.

The funny thing about daughters

There are a few things in my life that I can’t change even if I wanted to. I was born a daughter and I have a daughter who has a daughter.   I’ve spent the past few days celebrating that reality.  This was the week-end of my 5-year-old grand-daughter’s birthday.  And the celebration always reminds me how we came to be at this moment.

After seeing Aunt Georgie breastfeeding Alizon, GE threw away the baby bottles.

Five years ago after Georgie had Sophia, I saw my child in the role of mother.  How many years had I watched her playing with dolls, carefully dressing them and putting them to bed.  For the first time I was seeing her with her own real life doll.  

There was no question, then or now, that this is a job she loves.  Before I drove away from GE’s house the week-end after Sophia’s birth, she and I clung to one another in the driveway and wept, partly with joy of the new baby and partly with an intense sadness at the parting.  With the coming of my granddaughter, the Daughter connection had been sealed.

If that sounds like some sort of weird rite of passage deal, it is.  I experienced it with my mother when Georgie was born.  Back in the day, only mothers could stay in the labor room.  Dads could stay if parents had completed their Lamaze classes, but GE, who was supposed to be a Valentine’s baby, decided to make a Christmas appearance. 

Mother, Mary Ann and me on the night before GE was born

In the midst of one of those nearly there contractions, Mother, a cradle Catholic who knew minimal scriptures, quoted the part of Genesis about Eve’s punishment for succumbing to the snake’s temptation.  (Really, Mother?  Really? With a thousand pages of inspirational quotes? That’s the scripture you quote in the middle of labor? Now I know why Uncle Woody fired you as soon as he could afford to hire a real nursing assistant!)

Mother in the mid-60's.

I was aggravated then and laughed about it with her later.  Mother’s parenting advice was like her labor coaching.  “The sins of the mother, Margaret, are passed to their children,” she would say grimly when anything went wrong with GE’s behavior.  That applied to everything from teething and potty training to talking back and curfew violations.  (Thanks, Mom.  As if I didn’t have enough guilt…)

I didn’t appreciate my mother until I had Georgie.  It took a few years for it to sink in how much I scared her over the years.  I’m not talking about mis-placed guilt here.  I’m talking about the kind of reality that I got to confront when I did my 4th step in AA.  I was several years sober before I added Mother to my 8th step amends list.  If she’d been alive, she’d have said it was about time.

Grandmom, Mom, and Baby--We Three Daughters

I’d omitted her because, in my newly sober judgemental way, I was sure that she owed me more of an amends than I owed her so we cancelled one another out and I could scratch her off the list.  That kind of thinking never works in the long run.  

 Years later when Jack showed himself to be my son in thought, word and deed,  I knew how much I owed an amends to Mother, how terrified she must have been as she watched, struggling with the helplessness of a train wreck witness.  In 2004, I wrote her an amends letter, read it to her picture, and burned it, letting the wind take the ashes. 

#2 Birthday--Nemo B'day

I made verbal amends to Georgie not long after I got sober.  As a mother in recovery, I have gotten to make living amends to G.E. in a number of ways.  We alkie moms leave our kids on this teeter-totter of insecurity.  I can’t undo the past; I, however, can make a better present.  

#3-Chuckie Cheese (Charles Parmesan)

In my alcoholism, I was often physically present and emotionally, spiritually remote.   My favorite amends is to be there for her, REALLY be there for her, when she wants me to be there.   When I am fully present, I get to experience absolute joy.  So many times in my life, my ego has eclipsed the sun.

#4-Safari birthday

G.E. loves making traditions.  She established a tradition of our making Sophia’s birthday cake together at Sophia’s 1st birthday.  I can’t find a picture of the 1st birthday cake, but I have pics of the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th.  Sometimes we are incredibly arty, mostly the fun is in the planning. 

#5-Luau birthday

Oh!  The funny thing about daughters?  If we are lucky, we get to be mothers and grandmothers of little girls!

Crossbow 01 (we’re a long way from 101)

I am a weapon illiterate.  I’ve never found the need to own a gun.  Given my impulsive nature, that decision might have protected the lives of loved ones when I was still drinking.  That’s probably not really true.  The only time I fired a deadly weapon-as opposed to a BB or air gun-it was at a BFI dumpster and the sheer concept of bullet power scared me so much that I handed the gun back after a single shot.   I don’t think I could pick up and fire a gun at a living being in fear or anger.  Who knows?  I’m glad I haven’t had to make that choice.

Bob with his crossbow ready to do grocery hunting

Bob doesn’t have that trepidation when it comes to weapons.  He’s calm and careful when it comes to guns.  I’ve watched him show his kids hunting tips and safety is paramount.  I like that but I still don’t want to take the weapon lesson. 

Recently, Bob bought a cross-bow. I wasn’t aware that cross-bows are used in modern times by every day hunters.  I saw the archers use them in Shrek, but that’s the time period that I thought they were useful. 

Chinese crossbow from about 4th century B.C.

I really thought the firing mechanism was inspired by guns but it might have been the other way around.  Archeologists have found crossbows in 2,500-year-old Chinese graves, and some historians believe that they existed in China as early as 2000 B.C.  Bob’s looks less like the early crossbows and more like DaVinci’s revised designed for a crossbow.

Leonardo DaVinci's Huge Crossbow of Death

DaVinci designed a giant crossbow is somewhat estimated at either 40 or 80 feet wide, to be mounted on an equally enormous wagon.  Even though the giant crossbow would have been a bear to load, it would have caused devastation when its projectiles hit their targets.

Bob bought his crossbow in stages, getting the bow first and then the cocking mechanism, scope and practice target next.  Our Academy has a special archery department, allegedly fully staffed with trained archery professionals.  It says that in the archery catalog that they have in the department. 

The reality is that Academy spreads their archery professionals between several locations.  When the kids-and they were kids; it isn’t just my advanced age-finally answered the page, there were 5 or 6 archers vying for their attention.  Bob knew which cocking mechanism and scope he wanted, but he wasn’t sure about the practice target.  The prices ranged from $20 to $200; the $120 to $200 targets looked about the same except for a designation on the less expensive target that said “For Broadhead Arrows Use.”

You know what a regular arrow looks like. These are broadheads.

Our Academy professional told Bob that you can really use any arrow with the target, not just broadhead arrows.  So the less expensive target came home with Bob and he set up archery alley in his backyard.

It is just as scary watching a crossbow arrow fly past at 300 feet per second as listening to a gun first.  I was so nervous about Bobby opening the door to see how the shooting was going and either him or one of the dogs getting hurt that I could hardly watch and appreciate Bob’s target practice. 

Holy Cow! This arrow isn't coming loose!

And after the shooting was done, we think we found out why the target is designed for broadhead use.  Whatever material is used on that darn target is not conducive to easy arrow retrieval.   Bob got the arrows out but not without thinking he was going to have to do surgery on the target. 

Maybe I can wiggle it loose

Lesson learned:  when in doubt, don’t ask the cute Academy archery department kid.